


the way you make me feel

by abusedtrademarkemoji



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Face-Sitting, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, homeboy gets nasty, there's really not much else to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 01:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15763770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abusedtrademarkemoji/pseuds/abusedtrademarkemoji
Summary: michelle likes drunk sex A LOT. peter would agree.





	the way you make me feel

**Author's Note:**

> anotha one. got hooked on mj (of the jackson variety) and wrote this thing :-) thanks for taking a look!

It’s not entirely unsurprising that Peter Parker is vanilla in bed. Michelle isn’t bothered by it, not at all, despite her personally being a freak in and out of the sheets. She’s not bothered because Peter carries symptoms of the Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde case.

Once Peter downs his seventh drink, the magic brews. Soft, graham cracker Peter is burnt away and out of the ashes rises his drunk alter-ego that _emits_ confidence and _oozes_ raw, sexual, infinite appeal.

Spare her of her shame if Michelle counts down the days to the notorious monthly boy’s night, when the uninhibited Peter will make his way back to her, take hold of her hair, and tell her to beg. Save her the judgement you hold when Michelle strips their bed of the ‘nice’ sheets, instead replacing them with the worn and battered set from college. She’s learned better than to let him come home to wreck not only her but their duvet set as well. Michelle took notes after the version of Peter who returned home from Ned’s bachelor party and destroyed the last one.

That’s how Michelle knows that she is an adult. She cares about thread count now.

Returning to the subject at hand, is it weird if his bachelor party was the best night of her life? Not that she attended. She was at Betty’s celebration of course, but she was buzzing to get home to Peter. The wait was worth it in the end, because Peter tore her clothes off her body, gagged her with her own panties, and fucked her until the sun rose.

Today, Peter was stolen from her by Ned, Harry, Flash, and Abe to bar hop in Lower Manhattan.

She has  _Slaughterhouse-Five_ open on her lap from where she’s settled into bed. Her hair toppled up into a bun, and glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. But when she hears Peter  _finally_ stumble in, she throws her glasses onto the bedside table, rips her hair band out so that her curls tumble down her shoulders. She can’t help but primp herself. Michelle undoes two of the buttons on her flannel, artfully drapes the duvet over her bare legs.

Peter makes his way to her slowly and the anticipation builds up in her lungs. She flips through the book. Michelle isn’t even reading at this point, but she wants to make it look like she wasn’t waiting from nine ‘til four in the morning to get ass. So maybe she isn’t Meryl Streep, sue her. It’s not like she’s waiting for her Oscar.

Peter is doing god knows what in the kitchen, the sound of the cupboards opening and closing. She can feel the spike of her heartbeat when the floors begin to creak in the hall before their bedroom.

When Peter pushes open the door, she sees that his printed short sleeve is already unbuttoned. It hangs from his figure delectably. His hair is mussed and her stomach clenches at the sight.

She asks tentatively “How was it?”

“Good, good.” His focus is elsewhere, he doesn’t want to talk about how rowdy the boys got. He drags his eyes over her body, taking in her exposed legs and dewy skin. “What’ve you been up to?” Peter isn’t making eye contact but she can feel him mentally undressing her. He doesn’t care about her answer, just asks out of courtesy.

“Just reading,” she replies. The air is charged between their frenzied impatience. Why are they waiting?

“But not anymore, huh?”

“Not anymore.” She shakes her head.

“Everything good tonight?” He has the slightest of slurs tonight. He always makes sure to check now, beforehand. The first time they had drunk sex Peter spent the next day embarrassed and guilty for how he acted the night before.

It wasn’t until after countless affirmations from Michelle that he felt alright about it. Eventually they became comfortable enough that the two both look forward to it by now.

When Michelle nods her head, places her book on the nightstand, Drunk Peter is born.

He strides to the bed and winds his hands into her hair, pulling taught to guide her mouth up to his. His kisses are both sloppy and controlled, wet but dignified.

Peter kneels over her body, fumbles her flannel open and slides it off her shoulders, never once breaking the kiss. Michelle feels herself go lax as she submits to his commands. Soon she is nothing but a natural woman, naked and yearning for his touch.

Peter pulls her down so she is lying flat, straddles over her so that she is trapped under his weight, the two planes of his shirt hang and trace her frame. He grinds against her in slurred movements, less like grace but replaced with an overall intensity that makes her lips pucker and her leg twitch. Though his denim is rough, it has just enough grip to give her satisfaction. The friction doesn’t burn so much as it cools the fire that’s lit low in her stomach, extinguishes the combustion that was left in the vacancy of Peter.

Moving on from her mouth, he laps a trail down her jawline, nips at her ear. Whispers of how much he thought of her naked body tonight, instead of the countless other girls he saw, thickly make their way to her ear.

“Want you to sit on my face,” he tells her. Michelle has never heard poetry more beautiful in her life.

In flawless motion, he flips her so that she’s sitting on his lap. Peter lies back, “feel how hard I am for you?” She can. It’s not subtle. Personally, Michelle echoes that ache, her body is screaming at her to be touched.

She can merely nod her head. Peter has stolen her power of speech.

“No. I need to hear it.”

“I feel it,” she confirms, and to emphasize his feelings toward her she can feel his dick twitch with her words. It encourages her to press further. In a low voice, “I can feel how badly you want to fuck me.” Almost spitefully, she rocks her ass back into him.

It gets her the reaction she was hoping for. Peter picks her up with ease, hauls her pussy to his lips and locks onto her. His eyes close at her heady scent, and she remembers the other times that an inebriated Peter told her how  _good_ she smells like this, when she was wet for him. How gravelly his voice turned when he slurred on and on about how hot he felt when she let him taste her.

“Say something,” she says, she wants to hear it again. What Peter really thinks of her body, her ass, her skin.

“’M busy.” Michelle can hardly make it out from over her surprised yelp that escapes after she feels the vibrations of his voice against her.

“Again, please.”

She can feel his own soft moans, and she giddies at the motion again.

Between her own satisfied sounds she can just barely make out the words he murmurs between the lips of her vagina. “You love to fuck my mouth, don’t you? No one else can eat you out like me. Tell me I’m wrong. Lie to me.”

“I-I can’t. It’s you.”

He rasps “fucking right it’s me,” and the warmth of his breath blankets her labia. His confidence, the tremor of his discourse, in addition to the on again off again sucking of her clit, she thrums with pleasure. Her hips come to a shuddering halt once she orgasms, and it displeases Peter. Desperate for her to continue riding his face, he rocks her hips for her. Peter pulls her dead weight against him but he toys with black magic to bring her back to life. God did not create woman for man. Peter is full and living proof that men were made in the image of God for women like Michelle. If this confined Peter to being some auxiliary function separate from any other purpose, it is damn well worth it to have the privilege of Michelle Jones’ naked, captivating body clenched and throttling above him.

Michelle would not disagree, because Peter is the spitting example by which the red string that is knotted between them could loop in circles, criss-cross or tangle, and she would remain by his side. Every time, any life. The magnanimity of their relationship is impenetrable, whichever big bad of the week they must face or other bullshit that comes with life is meaningless. Because she knows that the moment she comes home Peter will be waiting with his grey sweats hung low, punny shirts worn thin through the years a full size too small, tight enough to reveal every asset of his body and all is well. When he pulls her hips up and drags her back to her natural rhythm, she’s forced to ride through it and her single orgasm is suddenly turning into two.

“Peter,” she sobs, voice wrecked from swallowing her own moans. She weaves her hands into his hair, holding on for clemency. It’s fruitless, because he won’t pull off. Peter laps at her even more fervently than before, no longer alternating between the sucking and humming. Now he only tonguefucks her opening, and a thumb coils around her thigh to flick her clit, sending jolts of pleasure from the soles of her feet up to the roots of her hair.

Hypersensitive from her second orgasm, she rears up and off his face, muscles riding into the air in robotic and uncontrollable thrusts. He smiles at her deliriously. His velvet soft lips shine from her slick and seeing the predatory gleam in his eyes makes her impossibly wetter. Peter takes an unforgiving grip on her ass and pulls Michelle back onto his face.

She’s bucking and grinding her clit on his tongue, sobbing from the tension so newly released. The sheets tangle at the foot of the bed and a pillow is thrown to the ground. Michelle clutches the headboard for esteem, but all it serves to do is cut off the blood from circulating to her fingertips. It does nothing to protect her against the vicious pleasure that Peter gifts.

Within seconds of her recovery, Peter’s index and middle finger skim over her lips by way of asking for entry. Her open and panting mouth accepts him, and she can feel the vibration of his voice shake her again when he tells her to suck. She wets his fingers and siphons him, drawing his fingers deep into her mouth, hums when he thrusts them in and out of her mouth.

“So good for me, baby,” he says into her thigh, eyes heavy lidded and amazed at her fervid sucking. He withdraws his fingers and replaces her mouth with her hole, sinking into her wet heat easily. Michelle cants at the new sensation, feeling fulfilled all over again. “Keep fucking my face.” His words are said with just enough demand for Michelle to manage to buck her hips again, lining herself up with his flat tongue. From being so sensitive, she can even feel where his jaw flexes as he works her over.

“Peter, I can’t,” she pants desperately. It’s both a cry for mercy and a prayer for strength.

“You can’t? Or you don’t want to?” Peter knows exactly what to say to make her tick. He slides his fingers out of her, pulls her off his face so that she’s sitting hollow on his chest, cradling his neck with her thighs. The drive of competition that is naturally in her spirit stirs and the desperation drips from the empty feeling between her thighs.

Her words are broken by open mouthed pants. “No, no. I can do it, please, Peter, finish me.”

“Yeah?”

She knows what he really wants, for her to beg him to be inside her again, tell him how she needs him.

“Yes.”

“That’s not enough.” He says that, but his tenacious grasp on her ass is so firm she can tell he is itching for her to return to him. It didn’t take her long to figure out that Peter enjoys eating her out—loves it even. In fact, it’s probably his favourite thing to do in bed, perhaps more so than fucking her. He always wants to get her off before he can himself and he never fails to do so.

She gives in, “Please, Peter, can’t do it without you. I need you. Can’t do it like you do it.”

Peter beams, his slick smile is smug with her pleas. His eyes are red-rimmed from being liquored up, yet still damp from the daze of loving Michelle and her body.

“You sure?” It’s a form of punishment for interrupting. She supposes the stalling is to say what goes unsaid: don’t challenge him. He knows what he’s doing. So when he chooses to repeat himself like this, she knows he’s fucking with her. And she’d rather have him _actually_ fucking her instead.

“Yes, daddy,” she quips.

His once playful eyes darken. Then the muscles on his arms that are shredded by work of fingerfucking and keeping her body upright now tighten to the point that she knows it will bruise overnight in peppered spots. He heaves her back onto his face and wastes no time in returning his fingers to that spot that makes her heart burn, nor does he postpone his tongue from applying perfect pressure to the rest of her.

Peter’s fingers, glossed up by her wetness, come up to stimulate her breasts. His thumb twirls over her nipples until they’ve pebbled and glisten in the soft light emitted from the bedside. Her breathy pants have turned into a deep-wrenched mewling.

Once satisfied with his work, he brings his hands back to where Michelle wants him most. The pace that he guns into her at is so sure, he’s had this power over her so many times before that he has mastered it. Knows her inside out. Better than she knows herself, perhaps. The angles he hits, the crook of his hand, when to add the next finger. Frankly, it’s obscene.

She’s shaking, which only serves to drive her faster and harder against him. Even if she weren’t being eaten apart by Peter, who ravages at her clit, she could still come from the pressure of his digits in her alone. His fingers arch and torque in and out of her perfectly, the way he knows she likes it.

He slaps her ass in a quick, ungentle motion. Just a fleeting pass of the hand has left her stunned. “More,” she pleas. Peter treasures her with a satisfied moan from under her, spanks her again, but the sting is overridden by instant pleasure.

“God, you’re begging for it. You want it again? So needy.” It’s said into her more so than to her, tongue swollen and steady.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Michelle tumbles into an endless stream of imploration.

“Say my name first.” Except Michelle can’t get it out, she can only squirm and whine when his thumb whets her out. “Say it. You won’t get it til you do.” His voice is delirious and syrupy as he replaces his mouth with his fingers.  “What’s my name, baby?”

“Hunh,” is all that her lungs can inflect. Michelle is braindead, any cell that used to exist is electrified and out of service, she can think of no more than his name. _PeterPeterPeter_. So why can’t she get it out?

Only when his hands come up, one to grip her neck and the other to twist and palm her nipple, does she regain the ability of speech.

“Peter,” heard by only dust and air with the hush of her choked whisper.

“Louder,” he purrs.

“Peter,” in something between a clap and a stroke, he swipes at her breast. “ _Fuck_ , Peter!”

“Good girl,” he commends. “So good for me,” and he confirms it with another swift slap to her behind. The force of it sends her forward. Her navel parallel to his face. The new angle pushes her clit even tighter to him. A haggard breath escapes her, hungover from the overstimulation. She can feel her lips flutter around his mouth. At the reception of Peter’s fingers peeking around her entrance, circling and dipping no more than a single knuckle at a time is embarrassingly enough to send her over the edge. Michelle crumples over him, leaning all her weight against him and he grunts through her orgasm as her legs cut off his airway. The tangle of her legs holds him off and the blush of alcohol against his chest reddens to a deeper, darker pigment. A shade that is near identical to the shades of bright red that Michelle sees when her eyes roll back. If Michelle was capable of looking she’d see that his jeans tighten from their new position to the point that Peter begins to feel desperate, too.

He wastes no time to strip, only unbuckles his belt and jeans as he finishes her off, effort low as his instinct does all the work for him. Peter lets it sit mid-thigh before wrestling her to turn and lay flat over him, ass to cock. Michelle is in pieces, limp and easy for him to discipline and lift. She can feel every place where their skin presses into the other, and Peter pulls her legs together, wraps his hands around her ankles so they cross. He pushes her legs up and out of the way to the point that she can feel the stretch.

The feeling fades once he fits himself inside her. Beginning with small, steady pumps, she relaxes into his touch. Her figure settles into his drunk heat.

He kisses everywhere he could possibly reach. After all the attention he paid to her below, she can feel her own natural wetness wherever his mouth trails. Peter must notice too, because he uses a hand to drag across the evidence. His drenched digits glide to her lips and Michelle eagerly takes the same fingers from before into her mouth again.

“Can you taste that? What we taste like together?” She whimpers, laving him up and taking it all in. She gets it, the mix of the two of them complimenting each other, salty yet acidic. Before she’s finished and had her share, he withdraws them to lick off what she had left over. She can hear his lips smack, satisfied with his work. “Holy fuck, I love you. Love you so much, babe.”

Sonorously, he endorses their love, her beauty, her wit, everything, into her skin. Misty whispers into her spine about how she is everything he ever wanted and more, how he thinks about her  _all the time_. How he pictures his handprint painted pink on her ass when he’s in meetings upstate, how he remembers the way her lips feel on his dick.

Peter offers slow, languid pumps that rock into her. The beat of their sex is a steady rock like an anchored sailboat. His stiff member slips cleanly inside of her with ease because of the release that expelled from her multiple orgasms. Michelle has grown so sensitive she swears she can feel each cell of Peter, every vein and every rate of pre-cum that slips into her.

“Faster, Pete, please. Fuck me faster.” Michelle naturally has a more subdued and long-drawn voice than the average woman, but after its been roughed up by sex—the screams, moans—its pitch is altered. Higher when she begs, lower when she explains her admiration for Peter’s handsome glow, then later, how thick he is inside her.

“Can’t babe, won’t last long if I do.” But her replying whine spurs him to do as she wishes. He can never say no to her, not when she lets him devastate her. Worse off, he can’t say no when she whimpers into his hand which embraces her jaw, turns her face into his. When they kiss, his mind bends, lost in her lips, wrought into oblivion by the enveloping comfort. It’s a slanted joining of mouths, their teeth click twice, but it doesn’t fail to make the couple quiver with euphoria. He can taste her midnight tea, hidden under the salt of her sweat. Her face is so warm. The blood in her body flows only two places: her face and the joint between her thighs. It creates a hotness that goes unparalleled, and the more Peter thinks about it, the less control he has over his body.

Something animalistic is unleashed, that time-bomb that Michelle has waited weeks for. She knows it the moment he throws them onto their sides. Michelle’s legs no longer positioned high above the rest of her, some inches lower than when she was on her back, only now one knee is crooked higher than the other. Peter drapes himself over her and he is burying into her with all the force of not only the abdomen that he was using before, but also with the added strength of his ripped legs. He drills into her, unkind and unprecedented.

Peter’s intoxication proves to be contagious because Michelle is poisoned and love-drunk once Peter locates her g-spot. His lithe body begins to turn frenetic. Any poise that previously existed with his inebriated confidence is lost as he becomes bound into her tightness. The newfound passion is near dangerous if the sound of the headboard is any indication. His superhuman strength is witnessed by way of the splintering wood.

“Goddamn it, Em. Feels like my cock was made for you. We fuck so good.” For the fourth time that night, she feels static travel from her core to each and every limb. Fingertips electric, toes curled, eyes squeezed shut. Crackling with ecstasy, her conscious fizzles out. And if MJ blacks out and wakes up to Peter coming inside her, then that’s nobody’s business but their own.

* * *

 

When she wakes the next day, closer to the afternoon than she is willing to admit, there is already a piping hot cuppa tea waiting for her in her favourite mug. It sits on the night stand just atop the Vonnegut novel she pretended to read in what feels like another lifetime. A different timeline where Peter exists only with Michelle and all they have is four walls and their own bare, natural bodies. A place where time is not counted though the Earth still turns.

The second Peter notices any sign of consciousness on her part, his too excited golden retriever personality has returned and he blankets her with love and affection. His coffee covered breath clouds over where he kisses her sacredly. Pronounced movements show Michelle his appreciation for last night. The only thing more satisfying than Peter’s rough and drunken sex is the morning after when he recalls every detail with ardour as if their deviant ritual was ceremoniously monumental. Nothing beats his laving over each and every finger shaped bruise that acts as a receipt of their night before.

“I love you,” he states into her skin, soft and sweet, nostalgic.

Michelle needs not speak words for Peter to feel her reciprocity because he feels it in her grace. She blesses him—walks on water, almost—and he would need an ocean full of whiskey in his body to feel a buzz stronger than his love for this woman.

 


End file.
